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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560593">One Musketeer Short</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Chronicler/pseuds/The_Chronicler'>The_Chronicler</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Musketeers (2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:40:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,885</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560593</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Chronicler/pseuds/The_Chronicler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They return from a mission one Musketeer short. To what lengths will they go to get him back? Is there anything left of him to get back?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>0o0o0<br/>One Musketeer Short<br/>0o0o0</p>
<p>Chapter One</p>
<p>It was a simple mission.</p>
<p>Sneak into Spain under the guise of a simple merchant and his bodyguards;<br/>Get said simple merchant to his ever so most trusted contact;<br/>Return said simple merchant safely to the King of France.</p>
<p>Only… <br/>Their return was blocked by an entire regiment of Spain’s finest lead by a vicious man with dreams of glory.<br/>The ever so most trusted contact turned out to be a self-centered, self-absorbed, cowardly ass;<br/>The simple merchant turned out to be the ever so dear cousin to King Louie, himself;<br/>Oh, and the bodyguards were four Musketeers, who, if discovered in Spain without their uniforms, would be tortured and hung as spies, then used as a political weapon to propel Spain and France into a war that would erupt the lands in fire and death.</p>
<p>And that is why Athos despised simple missions!</p>
<p>It was the first thought to come to him as he crouched behind the rickety, stone wall, remnants of some ancient castle long abandoned. It had been the spot chosen for the rendezvous with their contact. No sooner had they settled in and d’Artagnan and Porthos put on watch then the two had come hurrying back from separate directions, over the wall, each with an “Oh, shit” tale to tell: they were not alone!</p>
<p>Grinding his teeth, Athos looked back and down the rocky wall he hid behind at his waiting companions. </p>
<p>“Do you know who that is?” hissed Henri d’Albret, cousin to the King of France. “Caballero franco Felipe Trastámara! He will happily skin each and every one of us…”</p>
<p>His contact let out a withering, high pitched wine as he twisted in Porthos’ grip.</p>
<p>The big, angry Musketeer gave him a vicious shake. “Shut it, or I’ll give you somethin’ to wine about!” he warned.</p>
<p>Henri glanced at the two before finishing “And that’s before he learns we are of France.”</p>
<p>“Well.” Aramis rubbed his hands together. “He sounds like fun.” But he turned very serious eyes to Athos. “Ten, maybe fifteen, to one…. Athos…”</p>
<p>“I know.” Athos breathed. “We’re not fighting our way out of this.”</p>
<p>“And no help’s coming.” Aramis added.</p>
<p>“Nope.” agreed their lieutenant. Though he was the picture perfect scene of cold, calculating calm, his brain was in a frantic fray of what to do. </p>
<p>“Let me go! I will explain to them!” pleaded the Spanish contact. “I am nothing to no one! I am less than nothing! I know nothing! I’ve seen nothing!”</p>
<p>“You are the loudest damn nothin’ I have ever heard!” snarled Prothos, giving the man another ruthless shake.</p>
<p>Despite the fear in his eyes, Henri managed to behave much more admirably than his counterpart. Turning to Athos, he shook his head. “I must apologize, sir, to you and your men. If not for me none of you would be here.”</p>
<p>Athos huffed, but it was Aramis who offered the man some assurances. “Oh, my dear sir, if not here, surely we would find ourselves somewhere else in a like situation. Seems to be our calling.” The handsome Musketeer gave Henri a wink and a smile. “And hasn’t killed us yet.”</p>
<p>Henri tried to return the smile, but hesitated, not entirely sure what to make of the boast.</p>
<p>d’Artagnan stepped up behind him and took his elbow. “Monsieur, could I ask you a few questions about this area?” he asked as he led him a safe distance away, allowing Aramis and Athos the space to talk through their situation.</p>
<p>Aramis nodded his thanks to the boy, before turning back to Athos.</p>
<p>Athos looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “I have a bottle of some very good wine back in Paris, proof that your argument is flawed.” He grumbled.</p>
<p>Aramis rolled his eyes. “Truth, my friend, that bottle of wine is likely to get you into just as much trouble as you stand in now!”</p>
<p> The Musketeer lieutenant shrugged, not even trying to deny it, before glancing back over the wall.</p>
<p>Spanish troops were being directed into smaller units, preparing to take the castle. It was unclear if they knew who or what was hiding behind those decrypted walls, but it was obvious their intent to find out. The way the men were organized and snapped to obey spoke volumes of the command of this Caballero franco Felipe Trastámara. He was not just competent, but respected. Though they had the superior numbers, their organization seemed to indicate they weren’t entirely sure of that fact. Their positioning said they knew this terrain, but they didn’t know exactly where their prey was located.</p>
<p>It left Athos wondering if they had truly been betrayed or if this was just a simple case of bad luck.</p>
<p>Damn, he really hated that word: simple!</p>
<p>“So?” Aramis prodded. “How are you going to get us out of this one, oh, my fearless leader?”</p>
<p>Athos slowly turned his glare of death on his friend.</p>
<p>“Athos.” d’Artagnan called softly. When the two elder Musketeers looked at him, he offered “I might have a suggestion.”</p>
<p>0o0o0</p>
<p>Five minutes later and they were standing just outside a half-collapsed doorway leading down into a cellar like room.</p>
<p>“There are ruins like this back in Gascony.” The youngest Musketeer was explaining. “There were tunnels beneath once used for…” He shrugged. “I don’t know, for servants to move about without being noticed by the nobility or such. They were ideal for little farm boy’s escapes…”</p>
<p>“Escapes?” Porthos huffed. “And what did this little farm boy have to escape?” he wondered.</p>
<p>This time the boy’s shrug was to hide a sudden discomfort. He kept his attention on Athos. “We passed those hills and rocky bits on our way in. Would have been ideal location for tunnels from here to exit out of. I mean, there’s no guarantee we could find our way through, but, even if we didn’t, how likely is it that they know of the tunnels? We could stay hidden right under their feet until they gave up the search.”</p>
<p>Henri was quick to agree with that assumption. “I only know of the possibility because I studied the family lineage of the area before choosing this location. Some of the writings spoke of a siege in which supplies were snuck in through tunnels and the noble family escaped through an underground door. Also spoke of a dungeon with an outside entrance to dispose of… refuse… without disturbing the rest of the household.” When the other men frowned at him, the nobleman offered an apologetic look. “I do not believe these were good people.”</p>
<p>“How do we know the tunnels are even there?” Porthos wondered. </p>
<p>Aramis had his own doubts. “Without an exit, we would simply be bottling ourselves up.”</p>
<p>“You all are insane!” wined the contact.</p>
<p>The five men all turned and looked at Athos.</p>
<p>Athos really hated simple missions!</p>
<p>With a sigh, he waved a hand behind him. “Out there is certain death. The only question is will it be at the end of a sword or a noose.” He nodded to the doorway. “Down there is possibly nothing, but possibly escape.” He glanced at each of his brothers. “I rather challenge the unknown, than surrender to certain death.”</p>
<p>Porthos huffed. “Who say anythin’ ‘bout surrender? I plan on takin’ as many of them bastards as I can reach…”</p>
<p>“Choosing death over life in such a matter is surrender.” Aramis sighed. If anyone could find faith in the unknown, Aramis would be the man. With raised eyeborws and a shrugging tilt of the head, he gave Athos his backing. </p>
<p>“Well, hell.” Porthos mumbled. None the less, he put his back against the collapsed door frame and pushed, opening the way for the others. “Shovin’ a man my size down a little hole jus’ ain’t right. All I’m sayin’.” </p>
<p>Aramis patted his friend’s chest as he slipped pass him. </p>
<p>“I’m jus’ sayin’!” Porthos grunted again.</p>
<p>d’Artagnan and Henri searched the crumbling walls and rotting floorboards while Athos and Porthos stood watch at the entrance. Aramis was left in charge of the still complaining contact. </p>
<p>“I think….” The young Musketeer kicked over a chair, sliding his booted toe over a crack in the floorboards. “Yes.” He breathed, crouching down and digging his fingers into the edges, jerking off a board. </p>
<p>Henri was quickly at his side, helping him pull up the hatch. When there was enough room, the noble man leaned over, sticking his head through the hole. “Excellent, young man!” he cheered. “A good size space. Even Monsieur Porthos could feel a little comfort…”</p>
<p>“More comfort down there than up here!” Porthos quickly assured as he hurried down to join them. As d’Artagnan stood to look a question at him, he explained “They’re movin’ in now, bastards givin’ the place a look see. An’ they don’t look interested in takin’ prisoners.” He gave the boy’s chest a swat, his way of showing approval, even if he did growl at the idea of hiding away underground.</p>
<p>d’Artagnan’s chest swelled with the unspoken praise. “Step back, m’lord.” The youngster encouraged. Once the way was clear, he sat on the edge of the opening and disappeared down the hole. A moment later, and his voice came back “A slight drop, the stairs are gone. But there’s an opening…. And it’s clear!”</p>
<p>“Then get down there!” Athos commanded. His sword was pulled free as he backed away from the door. “They’re coming!”</p>
<p>“M’Lord.” Porthos offered his hand to the King’s cousin and lowered the man down. “Aramis, you’re next!” He snatched a hold on the contact, freeing his brother up to jump down the hole.</p>
<p>“Now, Porthos!” Athos growled as he pulled some fallen wood down across the door leading outside.</p>
<p>“Down you go!” Porthos grabbed the contact by the back of the collar. </p>
<p>Suddenly the little man was twisting, his fist coming up, slamming against his shoulder. </p>
<p>Porthos fingers went numb, losing his grip. At first the big man frowned, looking down at his hand, not understanding how such a little strike could possibly have such an effect…</p>
<p>“Porthos!” Aramis roared from below.</p>
<p>Athos spun away from the door at the yell. </p>
<p>Porthos stood over the hole in the floor, staring down at his empty hand, a small dagger embedded in his shoulder.</p>
<p>The contact made a lunge to pass Athos, but the Musketeer’s hand snapped back, wrapping around the little man’s throat. With a roar of rage, he lifted him up and slammed him down, flat on his back, head bouncing off the floor.</p>
<p>The winey man went limp under his grip, head falling to the side, eyes close.</p>
<p>Athos gave him one more shove, before bolting forward to grab Porthos. </p>
<p>“Porthos!” Aramis cried again from below. “Athos, how is he?”</p>
<p>“Take him!” Athos answered, carefully leading his brother to the hole and lowering him down. “Get them out!” Not waiting to see if he was obeyed, he turned back to grab the contact.</p>
<p>The man was already crawling towards the door. </p>
<p>Voices could be heard outside. Spanish voices.</p>
<p>Athos took a step after the man, but the contact looked back at him, over his shoulder, and began to scream. Instantly voices from outside answered, called to others, booted feet pounding the ground.</p>
<p>Cursing, the Musketeer spun back around and stepped off into the hole. Instantly he reached up and dragged broken boards over the hole.</p>
<p>Darkness swallowed him for just a moment, before a small glow from the corner of the room showed him the tunnel. d’Artagnan was waiting for him at the entrance. “Move!” Athos instructed, waving his youngest out ahead of him.</p>
<p>Aramais had moved the other two men just down the tunnel. He had leaned Porthos against the wall while Henri held a torch up. “Easy. On the count of three…”</p>
<p>“Get on wit’ it!” Porthos snarled. “Both know you won’t wait for thr…” He bellowed as Aramis didn’t even wait for one.</p>
<p>Handing the dagger off to Henri, Aramis quickly pressed his scarf inside Porthos shirt, shoving it into the hole.</p>
<p>Through clenched teeth, Porthos gave another bellow. </p>
<p>“I know, I know.” Aramis cooed. “That hurt. You’re alright. Just deep breaths.”</p>
<p>“Porthos?” Athos asked. </p>
<p>“Fine!” the man in question snarled. “Where is that little bastard?”</p>
<p>Athos raised an eyebrow at Aramis. </p>
<p>“He’ll live.” Aramis assured. “He’ll be grumpy, but he’ll live.”</p>
<p>“So, basically, no change at all.” d’Artagnan teased. He quickly ducked behind and around Aramis, trying to avoid Porthos’ glare. “I’ll scout ahead. Monsieur…”</p>
<p>“Yes, of course.” As Henri quickly lit a torch and handed it to Aramis, he suggested “Collapse the wooden beams behind you if you can. Perhaps slow them down.” Then he hurried after d’Artagnan. </p>
<p>Porthos huffed. “Good idea.”</p>
<p>“You know, as far as noblemen go, I like that little man.” Aramis mumbled as he helped pull Porthos from the wall. </p>
<p>Athos was already running his hand up and down the splintered beam over the entrance to the tunnel. “Get moving!” </p>
<p>0o0o0</p>
<p>d’Artagnan lead the way through the tunnels, often pausing to step over debris or taking a closer look at a crumbling wall. Twice he had avoided side tunnels that looked just too far gone to risk. He had no idea if they were heading in the right direction or just getting lost in a maze of twists and turns.</p>
<p>Though Athos had managed to collapse beams twice behind them and dragged debris across their trail to try to hide their passing, the sounds of pursuit echoed down the stone walls behind them. Sometimes close, sometimes distant, but, with the echoing, it was hard to tell just how far behind they were.</p>
<p>After nearly two hours of near blind wandering, Porthos began to stumble, his wound in desperate need of proper care. Twice Aramis had traded out the makeshift bandage. The medic cursed leaving their supplies back with the horses. They had only taken one water skin to meet the contact, and that had been mostly used before they had even entered the tunnels. Porthos needed water to help replenish the blood he was losing. Henri stayed close to the big Musketeer’s side, offering his shoulder to lean on when and if needed.</p>
<p>“Light!” d’Artagnan finally hissed, raising a hand, halting their progress. </p>
<p>Aramis glanced back. Athos was still out of sight, busy covering their trail and discouraging any pursuit that might get too close. That left the decisions up to him. </p>
<p>Lowering Porthos down on a fallen beam, he waved Henri to stand close. “Look after him.” He said no one in particular, knowing both needed looking after, yet neither would admit to it. Then he moved forward to join their youngest Musketeer.</p>
<p>Staying low to the ground, d’Artagnan had crept up to a wall of green foliage in which light poked through. Bits of rotted, wood planks hung from the wall, remnants of a long gone door. An aging, rusted chain lead from a winch on the wall up to the ceiling and lost in the over grown greenery. A row of heavy spikes lined the ceiling just over the opening, a portcullis. </p>
<p>Rapier in hand and at the ready, d’Artagnan carefully eased a vine aside and peered out into the sunny world beyond. When he could hear nor see any sign of nearby enemies, he slipped out and instantly dropped to the ground to one side of the entrance. It took a breath or two for his eyes to adjust to the sudden light. But, when they did, he ventured a little further out, through the bushes and trees.</p>
<p>He quickly recognized the terrain as ground they had covered before on their way to the castle. Which meant they had come out on the right side of the enemy forces. The road would be a little to the west. Their horses had been hidden a little further west of there. If they moved fast and silent then maybe, just maybe they wouldn’t have to walk back to Paris.</p>
<p>Satisfied, d’Artagnan slipped back inside the tunnel. Aramis greeted him on the other side, his pistol at the ready. “We made it.” Was all he had time to say before a loud shot echoed through the tunnels.</p>
<p>“Just in time, it would seem.” Aramis answered. “Go help Athos!” he commanded even as Henri was making his way around the corner, Porthos leaning heavily on the smaller man. </p>
<p>The boy flipped his hair and grinned at the older Musketeer before practically hopping back down into the darkness.</p>
<p>Henri paused to watch him go, then offered a small smile to Aramis. “Ah, to be young once again.”</p>
<p>“Yes, well, as long as he remembers that a puffed chest at a job well done is a poor excuse for a shield against cold steel or hot lead.” Aramis mumbled worriedly. Then he shook the thoughts from head. The boy might be young and inexperienced, but he was a Musketeer! Besides, not as if he was sending him off on a solo mission. He sent him to join Athos! Mentor and student made a most formidable team. He should be more concerned for the Spanish.<br/>He wasn’t.<br/>But he should be.</p>
<p>Sighing, Aramis held his hand out to Henri and Porthos. “Hurry. We need to get out of the way quickly.”</p>
<p>0o0o0</p>
<p>Athos was fighting in a backward motion, slowly, but steadily, being pushed toward his fellow Musketeers and their ward. The Spanish faced him three abreast. The width of the tunnel kept them from maneuvering as long as they faced Athos in that numbers, and they could not best the Musketeer with any fewer. On the other hand, Athos could not disengage from the fight and get away either. </p>
<p>Then a solution suddenly grabbed Athos from the back of his belt and pulled him back, and d’Artagnan was stepping up before him, rolling a small, ball like device toward the Spanish.</p>
<p>Everyone froze for half a breath as realization dawned on the fighters.</p>
<p>Then the youngest of the Musketeers was spinning around and tackling Athos back down the tunnel.</p>
<p>“Grenade!” one of the Spaniards managed before the device exploded.</p>
<p>A wave of heat rolled in both directions down the tunnel, filling the air with dust and smoke and flying debris at such speeds it became shrapnel. </p>
<p>It took Athos a few haggard breaths before he realized the weight on his back was d’Artagnan. Carefully, worried for the boy, he slid out from under him and pushed himself up onto his knees. Spitting out dust from his mouth, he reached down and started to turn his protégée over, but stopped when his hand caught on something sharp and slippery. Leaning down to get a closer look, Athos found the shattered tip of a sword embedded in the boy’s back. Not deep, not in an overly dangerous position, yet…</p>
<p>“Damn, that hurts!” d’Artagnan hissed as he started to push himself up.</p>
<p>“Easy.” Athos coached.</p>
<p>But then angry shouts reached them from through the smoke and half caved in tunnel.</p>
<p>d’Artagnan glanced back over his shoulder. “Easy later.” He suggested.</p>
<p>“Yup.” Athos agreed, grabbing him from under the arms and hauling him to his feet. </p>
<p>0o0o0</p>
<p>When he heard the explosion and saw the puff of smoke fill the tunnel, Porthos’ chest nearly collapsed in on itself. He took a step back in, after his wayward brothers, but stopped himself. Porthos right arm was on fire and he couldn’t make his fingers close around his sword hilt. He couldn’t help them. </p>
<p>Porthos glanced to the west. Aramis had taken Henri with him to get the horses. If the Spanish were focused on the tunnels, Aramis should be able to get to the horses and back without much of a fuss. But he had no one to watch his back. Henri was a good man, but he was no soldier!</p>
<p>They needed Athos and d’Artagnan!</p>
<p>“Don’t look so lost, Porthos.” Athos huffed as he led his stumbling boy into view. Covered from head to toe in dust and grime, coughing and bleeding, but moving, alert, and very much alive.</p>
<p>“What do two of you have ‘gainst ‘Mis?” Porthos found himself snapping as he stepped back outside, giving room for his brothers to make their exit. </p>
<p>d’Artagnan flashed him a smile. “Were you worried?”</p>
<p>“’Mis! Aramis! He worries!” Porthos protested with a stutter. “You know how he gets!”</p>
<p>The boy opened his mouth to offer a tease, but Athos cut him off. “Where’s Aramis?” he demanded, stepping out into the sunshine and looking about.</p>
<p>“Horses.” Porthos answered. He grunted as he pushed away from the stone wall. </p>
<p>Athos’ blue eyes snapped back to him. “Can you fight?”</p>
<p>The big man held up his left hand. “I can still beat bloody anyone who wants a round.” He assured.</p>
<p>“Athos!” d’Artagnan yelled as he backed toward the tunnel opening. He fired his pistol back the way they had come. “They’re coming!” He ducked behind a column as the rock wall was peppered with bullets in response. </p>
<p>“d’Artagnan, get out of there!” Athos commanded, starting back for the entrance. “Porthos, get down to the road!”</p>
<p>“Hey, kid.” Porthos tossed their youngest a grenade. “Wee bit of discouragement.” He suggested.</p>
<p>The boy caught the weapon, then quickly flinched back as another bullet struck his shelter. It took him a moment to light the grenade. “Heads up!” he warned his brothers as he crouched down and bowled the devise down the tunnel. It ricocheted off the wall, making it around the corner, and continued down until…</p>
<p>The explosion threw d’Artagnan to the ground, once more covering him in smoke and dust. It took him a moment to shake his head clear, wincing as pain tore across his back again from the original wound. Coughing, he tried to blink the dust from his eyes.</p>
<p>“d’Artagnan!” Athos yelled. “Damn it, get out of there!”</p>
<p>The youngest Musketeer scrambled, his feet slipping on debris until he managed to get them under him. He stumbled toward the light, his vision bleared and fuzzy. A clanking echoed in his head, each link vibrating through his skull.</p>
<p>“Stop!” Porthos shouted a warning.</p>
<p>d’Artagnan saw the movement just in time to yank his hand back before the portcullis slammed down.</p>
<p>There was a moment of stunned silence, then Porthos’ “No, no, no… Athos!”</p>
<p>“Out of the way!” Athos snapped as he rushed up to the gate. He grabbed the bars and tried to lift it. </p>
<p>d’Artagnan blinked in confusion as he watched his mentor struggle to try and lift the heavy gate that now blocked his escape.</p>
<p>“Porthos!” Athos growled, readjusting his grip so Porthos could use his left hand. “d’Artagnan, wake the hell up!”</p>
<p>The command snapped the boy into action. He grabbed his side of the portcullis and the three of them used every ounce of strength they had to try and lift it. </p>
<p>It was too heavy. They couldn’t even budge it.</p>
<p>With a wordless roar, Porthos slammed his shoulder against the metal.</p>
<p>Gasping, Athos was forced to release his grip. “d’Artagnan, try the wench!” he huffed.</p>
<p>Stumbling back, d’Artagnan followed the wall back to the wench. Grabbing the handle, he gave it a pull, only to have it splinter off in his hand. The boy gave it a growl, throwing it away. He tried to grab the wench wheel with his bare hands and turn it, but only succeeded in taring his hands.</p>
<p>Desperately Athos searched the portcullis. “Damn, damn, damn…” he breathed. Finding nothing to help lift the gate, he slammed his fists against hit, roaring “DAMNIT!”</p>
<p>d’Artagnan watched a moment, an icy realization coming to him. He stumbled back to the portcullis. “Athos.” He coughed. </p>
<p>Athos tried to lift the gate again, his muscles straining, veins becoming visible. </p>
<p>Spanish voices could be heard from down the tunnel. </p>
<p>“Athos?” d’artagnan tried again. When his mentor ignored him, he glanced up at Porthos with pleading eyes.</p>
<p>The big man’s dark eyes glistened, showing he had come to the same conclusion. Porthos dropped his forehead against the bars. “Athos…”</p>
<p>“No!” Athos spun on him with a snarl. “We won’t leave him! I will not leave him!” Then he grabbed at the gate again.</p>
<p>“Athos, stop!” d’Artagnan yelled at him, grabbing his hands through the bars.</p>
<p>The older man froze, his eyes downcast, glaring at the hated obstacle.</p>
<p>d’Artagnan crouched down so he could see his face. “Athos, you have to go.” He whispered. “You have to leave me.” He paused to look over his shoulders as angry Spanish shouts and curses sounded as the enemy had found their fellows taken down by the last grenade. “Please, Athos…”</p>
<p>“no…” Athos hissed back.</p>
<p>“They can’t find you here!” the boy protested. “They can’t find Henri!” </p>
<p>Athos squeezed his eyes closed. </p>
<p>d’Artagnan tried to reason with him. “If they find Musketeers here in Spain…”</p>
<p>“You are a Musketeer!”</p>
<p>“Barely! I mean… I’m new. Not a lot of people would recognize me. But you, Porthos, Aramis… and Henri!” d’Artagnan shook his head. “Athos, if they get their hands on the cousin of the King of France…” </p>
<p>Porthos fired over their heads, killing a Spanish soldier who had poked his head around the corner. He stepped back to reload. </p>
<p>d’Artagnan lurched to his feet and slammed his own fist against the bars. “Damn it, Athos, I want you to go!”</p>
<p>Athos finally raised his eyes to look at the boy, his protégée, his friend, his little brother.</p>
<p>d’Artagnan met his eyes. “I am a King’s Musketeer! This is my duty!” he told him, his voice strong and steady. “Yours is to get Henri back to France, safe and sound!” When Athos slowly rose, d’Artagnan’s voice dropped to a pleading whisper “Please, Athos, I need you to go!”</p>
<p>Porthos fired again.</p>
<p>“Goddamnit!” Athos snapped. He pushed away from the bars and snatched his pair of pistols free and handed them through to his youngest Musketeer. “Keep them away as far long as you can.” He started to instruct, before he choked on his own tightening throat. </p>
<p>Gratefully, d’Artagnan accepted the weapons. “I will.” He promised.</p>
<p>Athos stared at him another moment, before spinning about and hurrying into the trees.</p>
<p>Porthos offered his own newly loaded guns to the boy. When he took one, the big man laid his hand over the much smaller one. </p>
<p>d’Artagnan blinked up at him. </p>
<p>“Stay alive!” the big man breathed. “We’ll be back for you!” he swore.</p>
<p>The young Musketeer offered a sad smile and nodded. “I know.” He lied.</p>
<p>Porthos knew it was lie, but he released him anyway. Clutching his wounded arm to his side, he turned and hurried after Athos.</p>
<p>A bullet slammed into the wall beside d’Artagnan.</p>
<p>The young Musketeer spun about and fired back.</p>
<p>0o0o0</p>
<p>Aramis was almost surprised that Athos was the first of his brothers to make it down to the road. Usually he’d be covering the rear. “Athos…” he started when his friend swung up on his mount without a word.</p>
<p>“Aramis!” Porthos shouted as he quickly followed. He hurried to his own mount. Henri was there to offer support to help the wounded Musketeer mount up.</p>
<p>It was Henri who asked “Where is d’Artagnan?”</p>
<p>Aramis looked back into the trees. They could hear distant gunfire. Alarmed, he glanced back to Athos and Porthos. When neither would look at him, Aramis demanded “Where is he?”</p>
<p>“He’s not coming.” Porthos grumbled an answer.</p>
<p>Frowning, Aramis looked up at him. “What… what do you mean he’s not coming?” He looked up through the trees to the sound of gunfire. It was diminishing now. “Is that him? Is that d’Artagnan?” he asked as if it could have been anyone else. </p>
<p>When no one answered, he growled and headed for the trees.</p>
<p>“Aramis!” Athos snapped.</p>
<p>The medic froze at his tone.</p>
<p>There was one final shot then silence.</p>
<p>“Mount up.” Athos commanded.</p>
<p>“d’Artagnan…”</p>
<p>“He’s not coming!” Athos spoke, his tone completely void of emotion.</p>
<p> Aramis felt a cold grip his chest, tightening until he couldn’t breath. His brain couldn’t form thoughts, couldn’t… just couldn’t!</p>
<p>“Aramis.” Porthos called softly. “Mount up.”</p>
<p>With an agonizing groan, Aramis climbed up on his horse and followed as Porthos led the way back to France.</p>
<p>One Musketeer short of a simple mission.</p>
<p>0o0o0</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter Two</p>
<p>It took eight days to return to Paris, two of which spent nursing Porthos back from a fever.</p>
<p>Porthos had actually been thankful for the fever. It had started in the first morning after their escape, but he had forced himself through it until they were a day into France. Aramis had, again, been arguing with Athos when the big man had interrupted them by falling off his horse.</p>
<p>To be fair, Athos hadn’t participated in any of the arguing. He had barely said a word that wasn’t a direct order since… well, since d’Artagnan.</p>
<p>Aramis, on the other hand, had done nothing but argue. As soon as they had crossed into France, Athos had to snap one of his few words, ordering him not to turn back. It was not until Porthos had fallen from his horse, that Aramis had finally taken pause. </p>
<p>Even after the fever had subsided and his strength returned enough to continue on, Porthos had ridden bent over on his mount, eyes half close, swaying every now and again, just so his brother would stay close. As long as Aramis was worried about him, he wasn’t hounding Athos.</p>
<p>When they were within a day’s ride of Paris, Henri had offered to ride the rest of the way alone, freeing his guardians to do what they must do. He didn’t suggest going back for their missing man, but the offer was there nonetheless. </p>
<p>But Athos gave a solid, indisputable “No!”</p>
<p>Aramis had opened his mouth to argue, but Porthos had grabbed his arm, warning him against it.</p>
<p>So, they rode on into the city, delivering their ward to the palace, and, standing before their Captain and Cardinal Richelieu, gave their report.</p>
<p>Athos gave the bare facts in his cold, emotionless tone, eyes unwavering as they stared straight ahead: They made it to the appointed place at the appointed time; met with the contact; was surrounded by overwhelming numbers; escaped through tunnels where d’Artagnan was trapped; unable to free him, d’Artagnan slowed down the enemy so that the others could make their escape; besides for the time to care for Porthos’ injuries, they returned straight away to Paris.</p>
<p>Captain Treville listened, his eyes locked on his lieutenant, observing more than what words alone could tell him. </p>
<p>Richelieu listened silently, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out the window.  When Athos had finished, it was the Cardinal who was the first to speak, sounding almost apologetic. “It was an ill-advised endeavor in the first place. d’Albret is not a man of action, but a man of the written word. It was foolhardy to allow him this whim.” He shook his head. “A shame.” But then he took a deep breath and turned to the Musketeers. “Alas, we can only pray that this episode has cured him….”</p>
<p>“Shame?!” Aramis hissed, practically spatting the word at the holy man.</p>
<p>Richelieu kept his usual practice poise, offering only a raised eyebrow at the interruption. After a moment, he bowed his head to their Captain. “I will leave you to tend to your men while I take this news to the King.” And then he left the room without another glance to the three Musketeers.</p>
<p>Treville pushed away from the desk he leaned upon. He looked to Porthos. “Your wound?” he asked.</p>
<p>Porthos stretched out his arm, though not as high as he would have liked, flexing his fingers. “Good as new.” He assured, doing his best not to let the pain left behind come out in the growl of his tone. He failed.</p>
<p>The Captain almost smirked at the lie. He looked at Aramis, his unspoken question obvious. </p>
<p>The medic gave a frustrated sigh. “He’s on the mend. Not as far as he thinks he is, but further than he wants me to believe. But he should make a full recovery, less any further damage he might do to himself.”</p>
<p>Porthos scoffed, but couldn’t resist a questioning frown at his best friend.</p>
<p>Aramis shrugged. “You sway like a girl into the arms of her targeted husband-to-be.”</p>
<p>The big man’s eyes widened is shock at being discovered. “I will have you know, ‘Mis, I am a very good swayer! I could have those husbands-to-be lined up around the corner if I so want it!” he argued.</p>
<p>“Well, then!” Treville halted that conversation right then and there. “In such fine shape, the two of you can head back to the garrison…”</p>
<p>“Sir!” Aramis interrupted. “What about d’Artagnan? We cannot just abandon him!”</p>
<p>Out of the corner of his eye, the Captain saw Athos flinch. The man’s silence was sounding off like warning bells to him. All three of his men were worn out, but Athos looked as if he had actually aged. Though Porthos might have been the one stabbed, it was Athos who had been gravely wounded. And Aramis was so distracted by his own heartache, he couldn’t see the pain his brothers were in. </p>
<p>Treville had to split them up, if only for a few hours. Just enough time for each of them to deal with himself, get himself sorted.</p>
<p>Apparently Porthos wasn’t as deep in himself as the other two. “’Mis, lets get back to the garrison. A hot bath, hot food, ‘night’s sleep…”</p>
<p>Aramis turned on him. “You think that’s what d’Artagnan’s getting?” he wondered, the scorn just dripping off his tone. “Big, lovely tub with hot water and rose petals? Maybe a shank of lamb? Spanish strawberries?”</p>
<p>“’Mis…”</p>
<p>“No! I want to know!” Aramis practically yelled at his best friend. “I want to know why you think I could sit back and relax when our brother suffers!” He didn’t wait for an answer, spinning back to their Captain. “Sir! Fresh horses, full packs…. We can be ready in a few hours…”</p>
<p>“No.” Trevilla answered as gently as he could despite knowing there was no gentle way to make Aramis understand.</p>
<p>Aramis hesitated, his eyes narrowing, his brain working way too hard at avoiding that blinding truth that he already knew. He glanced sharply up at Porthos, trying to decipher some other logical reason. “Sir, Porthos’ injury is nearly healed. By the time we reach the boarder, he should be ready.” He paused to lick his lips. “But, if you are concern, we can do it without him… or maybe another Musketeer… Andre is a good man.”</p>
<p>“No, Aramis, I will not be sending you three…”</p>
<p>“Then who?” Aramis demanded. He took a step toward him. “If you are worried about us being recognized… Athos was the only one who faced any of the Spanish, and I highly doubt any of them lived to tell the tale.”</p>
<p>“Aramis…”</p>
<p>Another step forward, his hands moving now, almost franticly. “Captain, the longer we wait, the worse… d’Artagnan needs us! He needs us to get him out of there! We need to save him!”</p>
<p>“Goddamnit, Aramis!” Athos suddenly exploded, spinning about and slamming his fists down on the desk with bone jarring force. “He’s dead!”</p>
<p>The entire room froze. Even Treville’s breath caught in his throat.</p>
<p>When Aramis took another breath, it was to turn on Athos. “How the hell do you know? You were sitting pretty in the saddle when he was still firing, still fighting for his life, still….”</p>
<p>“Athos!” Trevill shouted, leaping after his lieutenant. </p>
<p>But Athos already had Aramis by the shirt front, slamming him back against the wall. “You think I wanted to leave him?” he snarled, baring his teeth a mere breath from the tip of his brother’s nose. “Don’t you fucking understand? I! could! Not! Save! him!” He punctuated his last statement by slamming Aramis against the wall after every word.</p>
<p>“Hey!” Porthos shouted from the other side, racing to separate the two.</p>
<p>But Athos had already released his brother, stepping back to let Aramis slide down the wall, to sit on the floor.</p>
<p>“That is enough!” Treville snapped, jerking Athos back to a safe distance. Keeping a hand on his chest, making sure he stayed put, the Captain looked over his shoulder to see Porthos checking on Aramis.</p>
<p>The big Musketeer dropped to one knee beside his best friend. “’Mis?”</p>
<p>Aramis was blinking his eyes, seemingly dazed. But it was a daze brought on by pain. At least not pain brought on by physical hurt. Taking a shuddering breath, he looked up at Porthos with eyes bright with tears. </p>
<p>Porthos groaned with his own agony. Putting a big hand on his shoulder, he tried to explain. “’Mis, he was trapped. We couldn’t get him out. We tried. I swear to god, we tried! I swear on our brotherhood, we tried!” He paused to shake his head. “Them Spanish bastards were coming down on him and they were snarlin’ and howlin’ like a pack of rabid wolves. They were not gonna be takin’ prisoners! The kid… d’Artagnan… he looked at us and he knew… he just knew! And he told us to go. Athos… he didn’t want to.”</p>
<p>Aramis’ eyes snapped to where Athos stood, leaning on his fists, over the desk, his head hung, his eyes squeezed shut.</p>
<p>“God, I thought I was gonna lose them both there.” Porthos groaned again. “But d’Art wasn’t gonna let Athos die for him! He made him go! He made him…” His own voice cracked and he hung his head.</p>
<p>Aramis turned to look at him again. Hesitantly, he reached up and rubbed his hand up and down Porthos arm, tyring to offer what little comfort he could.</p>
<p>Porthos tore himself away to look at their Captain. “You’d o’ been proud of him, Captain!” he told him. “Not a whisp of fear. He knew what he had to do. And he set himself to doin’ it. That kid… That was no kid, no boy. That was a man! That was a King’s Musketeer!”</p>
<p>Treville felt his chest tighten, his own eyes burning. He had lost men before. That was nothing new to this old soldier. Every Musketeer under his command had been like a son to him.<br/>
But that boy…<br/>
That man…<br/>
That King’s Musketeer…<br/>
Charles d’Artagnan had been something special. And the world was suddenly lacking for the loss of him.</p>
<p>Taking a calming breath, the Captain said once more “The two of you head back to the garrison. Get a hot meal and get some rest. Porthos, make sure to take proper care of that shoulder.”</p>
<p>“Sir.” Porthos answered with a sharp nod of the head. He rose to his feet and offered a hand down to Aramis.</p>
<p>After a breath, Aramis took the hand and let Porthos pull himself to his feet. “Yes, sir.” He answered quietly with his own nod, before allowing himself to be led from the room.</p>
<p>When they were gone, Treville took a deep breath, then turned to see to Athos.</p>
<p>The man was strung so tight, he was shaking. His fists were balled until his knuckles shone bone white, except where he had split them on the desk and blood pooled. His storming blue eyes were open again, dashing back and forth as if desperately trying to work something out. A war raged inside the Musketeer, a war between duty and loyalty, between honor and love, between odds and hope.</p>
<p>Treville gave him a moment, hoping the inner raging would settle. When it didn’t the Captain ventured forward into dangerous terrain. “Athos?”</p>
<p>“Send me.” the man ground out unexpectedly.</p>
<p>The Captain frowned. “What?”</p>
<p>Athos rose up and turned to face him. “Send just me.” When Treville just stared at him, Athos continued. “Send me back. Risk only one. To simply scout, investigate what had happened. It was simply… just bad luck running into those soldiers. They weren’t looking for us until they stumbled onto us. As far as they know, they could just have some over curious farm boy. Might have just given him a beating and released him.”</p>
<p>Treville shook his head. “Athos, even if they didn’t know who or what he was… how many Spanish soldiers do they think he killed?” He peered into those strong blue eyes and asked “In all honesty to yourself… even if he had survived to be captured… after eight days in the hands of vengeful Spanish interrogators… do you believe d’Artagnan is still alive?” </p>
<p>The Captain felt as if his chest was being crushed as he watched the hopeful light go out in the man’s eyes.</p>
<p>Athos squared his shoulders and raised his chin as if he was readying himself to face a firing squad. “No.” he admitted. “Gascony stubbornness, alone, would have demanded that he not allow himself to be taken alive.” Those blue eyes shifted just enough. “And yet…” he whispered.</p>
<p>Treville sighed sadly. He reached out to give Athos’ shoulder a squeeze. “And yet…” he allowed himself a whisp of a fantasy.</p>
<p>0o0o0</p>
<p>Caballero franco Felipe Trastámara was the bastard son of a bastard son of the King of Spain. He was a Hidalgo, a nobleman of blood, but not birth and without grant of nobility from His Majesty the King of Spain. An Immemorial Noble.</p>
<p>Felipe Trastámara did not intend to remain immemorial!<br/>
Felipe Trastámara intended to be remembered for all times!</p>
<p>Peter Trastámara did not give a damn about being remembered. He loved the taste of blood. He loved the feel of it as it splattered his face, running through his fingers, pooling at his feet. He loved the screams of men as they laid begging for their mothers and death with equal yearning. He loved the stench of hours old battle fields, the sight of craven birds plucking out eyes and digging about for tasty livers.</p>
<p>Starting out as only sword carriers for the Greater Nobles, Felipe and Peter rose quickly and violently through the ranks; Felipe forging their path through the dangerous intrigue of politics, Peter hacking their way through skin and bone. Together the two brothers came to command a regiment of Spain’s finest and bloodiest, carving out a reputation across three continents. </p>
<p>The everyday strife around the world had become a bore for these two Lords of War. They hungered for a real clash, a conflict of blood and glory that would be told for generations to come. May it be another world encompassing Hundred Year War, then they would be sure that their war cry Trastámara would be shouted from the front ranks.</p>
<p>Thus, it had not been by chance that the brothers had found themselves on their home soil that day. The stench of aggression rose from the boarder between Spain and France like a thick sulfur brume, ripe for the right candle to be dropped and ignite the simmering war to come.</p>
<p>It was not by chance that the Trastámaras found themselves at their long crumbled ancestral castle not far from the boarder that day. Whisper of a prize… a French prize… had reached their ears, a prize that could be that candle, that long awaited spark.</p>
<p>“So… was is worth it, you might ask? This prize? Was it worth the cost?” wondered the Spaniard after telling of his masters like a revered tale. He tapped his crutch on the cold, stone floor, throwing the stump of his right leg forward, displaying the blood stained bandage wrapped around the end. “The blade? The bullet? The shrapnel of grenade?” He held his head high. “Yes.” He hissed through clenched teeth. “To see them ride into battle like Romulus and Remus, painted in blood and glory…” he drifted off as if floating away in a fevered dream. </p>
<p>“Carlos.” Purred a voice from behind. When the wounded soldier snapped about, Caballero franco Felipe spread his hands with a smile. “Carlos, you should return to your bed. Allow the senoritas to distract you into oblivion.”</p>
<p>The one legged man bowed his head respectfully. “Your will.” He hobbled pass and out of the room.</p>
<p>When he was gone, Peter smirked at his brother. “Which are you? Remus or Romulus?” he teased.</p>
<p>Felipe shrugged. “The trick of the story, brother, is that they were one in the same. Two sides of a god tossed coin. Or so is my theory.” He answered somewhat cryptically.</p>
<p>Peter snorted. “So is your theory!” Leaving it at that, he stepped further into the room and eyed the prize. “Was it worth it, brother of mine, the other side of my coin? Has the prize been identified?”</p>
<p>The two men turned to contemplate the figure in the middle of the room. </p>
<p>He knelt, bare kneed, on the cold stone, his arms pulled back and up, a pole slid under his elbows and across his back. Wearing nothing but his braies, his body exposed, showing numerous small wounds: cuts and bruises, burn marks, a bullet graze across his hair line. The floor around him was wet and smelled of sulfur from the salt water the prisoner had been scrubbed with in an attempt to avoid infection so that he may last longer. </p>
<p>Felipe frowned. “It has not. Proven to be a stubborn creature, has not utter one simple word.” He stepped to the wall and poured himself a glass of wine. </p>
<p>“Does he even have a voice?” </p>
<p>“Oh, he does. His screams echo still.” Felipe took a moment to rub at one of his ears. “After eight days I was beginning to fear for the rafters.” He chuckled.</p>
<p>Peter leaned close. “He’s young.” He ran his fingers through the sweat sticky hair, grabbing a hand full and pulling the head back so he could get a better view of the face. “Beautiful even.”</p>
<p>“I thought so too. Dark toned. Like a farmer’s tan.” Felipe admired. “And fierce eyes!”</p>
<p>Peter snatched his chin and twisted his head until those dark eyes opened and glared up at him with such fire they smoldered. Still, Peter glanced back at his brother. “And are we sure he is not just some wayward farm boy, escaping a tedious life of dirt and plow? Full of piss and anger?”</p>
<p>“With six pistols?” Felipe shook his head. “And I am sure that they were Parisian made. And his hands! Look at his hands.”</p>
<p>Peter took one of those fine boned hands in his big, hefty fingers. He could feel the callouses on his skin, noting their meaning with practice ease. “He has known work… but not like he has known a sword.” He admitted. Stepping back to his brother’s side, Peter once more looked over their prize. “It will be a hard sell without a confession, without words from his own mouth.” He nibbled at his lower lip in thought, before admitting hungrily “Oh, but what a thing it would be to rip those words from that mouth.”</p>
<p>Felipe chuckled. “Now, Peter, I never know if it is the lust for blood or having your corn ground that directs your attention.”</p>
<p>His brother returned the chuckle and wondered “Is there a difference?”</p>
<p>Felipe let out a full laugh. Handing his brother the glass of wine, he managed to tell him “Then I leave you to it. I am called away to Madrid. Our dear cousins wish to know… without knowing… what it is we have discovered here.” He shrugged. “Not that there is much to tell. Without words, I can not even tell them his accent.” He paused to frown. “Can a scream carry a discernible accent I wonder.” </p>
<p>Peter tilted his head in thought. “I will be sure to listen for an answer for you.”</p>
<p>“Gratitude.” He patted Peter on the chest before turning and making for the door. “My love, brother of mine.”</p>
<p>“And my love to you.” Peter answered. </p>
<p>When the door closed behind Felipe, Peter downed the wine in a single gulp. Stepping over to the work bench that ran along the wall, he picked out one of his favorites: thumb screws. Turning back to the man in the center of the room, he asked “So… shall I introduce myself?”</p>
<p>0o0o0<br/>
0o0o0</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I truly had no idea how to introduce my villains. I do hope they seem villiany enough.</p>
<p>For those who don't know me, I feed on feedback. So, help a girl out, will you?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There is rape in this chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter Three </p><p>Porthos glanced up as Serge set a steaming bowl of porridge in front of each of them, nodding his thanks.</p><p>Serge grunted his usual, but he set a hand on the big Musketeer’s shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze, before, with a glance at Aramis’ hung head, made his way back to the kitchen.</p><p>Porthos picked up his spoon and looked across the table at his best friend. Aramis was staring down at his crossed arms, his porridge sitting unnoticed. With a sigh, he pushed the bowl forward, bumping it against his brother’s arms. </p><p>Aramis look up at him.</p><p>Waving his spoon at him, Porthos told him “Eat.”</p><p>The medic looked down at the bowl, before pushing it away.</p><p>It had been five days since they had returned home and it still felt like they were in hostile territory. <br/>Aramis had barely eaten, barely slept, barely moved, and it was more than just being lost in his own grief. He had a thing about getting left behind all alone. He had been there. He had done that. His nightmares of Savvoy had come back fresher and meaner, only, this time, he was watching the nightmare happen to a little brother he had sworn to protect from such things.<br/>As for Athos… Only God and Treville knew what he had been up to. Porthos had seen him twice now: once when he had brought his horse back to the garrison the first day and went up to the Captain’s office without a word to his brothers; and the evening the next day when he had stepped into their usual tavern, glanced about, and left without even taking a bottle with him. </p><p>Through grinding teeth, Porthos growled “’Mis, you gotta eat. You’re starvin’!“ He was getting pissed off at the whole deal. One brother dead, another wished he was, and the other might as well be. The weight was beginning to bare down on even his big shoulders.</p><p>Aramis gave a heavy sigh. “I am not starving.” He assured, though it sounded as weak as a kitten to his big brother’s ear.</p><p>“Could o’ fooled me.” Porthos huffed. Again he shoved the bowl at Aramis, this time with a bit more force, sloshing the contents. “Eat!”</p><p>The marksman straightened up and glared down at the bowl. “I’m not hungry.”</p><p>“Don’t matter. You need to eat. Eat!” </p><p>“Porthos…”</p><p>“’Mis, if you don’t start shoveling that goop into that maw of yours, I’m gonna start doin’ it for you!” Porthos warned.</p><p>Aramis blinked up at him, a little startled by the threat. One, real look at his brother and he was suddenly hit by a whole new wave of guilt.</p><p>Porthos was angry. He had been so wrapped up in taking care of his brothers, he hadn’t taken time to deal with his own grief. Pushing it down under layers of “Is Aramis eating?” “That another nightmare?” “Aramis, just put one foot in front of the other…” Like a burr in the heal of a boot: ignoring it just made it worse, allowing it to twist and rub its way down through meat and bone until it finally broke the man standing on it.</p><p>Stealing himself away from his own demons, Aramis took up his spoon and took a bite.</p><p>The big man’s eyes narrowed.</p><p>Aramis took another bite and looked at him expectantly.</p><p>With a huff, Porthos turned his attention to his own breakfast. “’Bout damn time.” He grumbled.</p><p>For a few minutes the two ate in silence, each eyeing the other over spoon fulls of gruel, their expressions twin mixtures of irritation and concern. </p><p>“I am sorry.” Aramis finally spoke.</p><p>Porthos grunted. Still he raised a questioning eyebrow at him.</p><p>Aramis started to set his spoon down, but, when Porthos’ eyes narrowed again, he decided to keep it in his hand. Even if he paused to speak, spoon in hand indicated an intention to continue to eat; one Porthos seemed to need assurance of. </p><p>The marksman started again. “I am sorry that I worry you. I don’t mean to.”</p><p>“I know, ‘Mis.” The big man dropped his eyes back to his food. “You jus’ bein’ you. You think too much. Get your head all…” He paused, searching for the right word, finally ending up just wagging his spoon in a circular motion towards his ear.</p><p>The corner of Aramis’ lips twitched up, the barest of smiles almost making it through. “Indeed… I suppose I do.” He admitted softly. With a tired sigh, he looked around the Musketeer compound. </p><p>Everything seemed so dull, so quiet, so gray. There was no laughter, no endless questions, no brotherly banter, no playful energy. Even the pair dueling in the open space seemed to be just going through the motions. It was as if a heavy blanket had been thrown over the world and they were all slowly suffocating under its weight.</p><p>Porthos tapped Aramis’ bowl with his spoon, reminding him of what was right in front of him.</p><p>Obediently, Aramis took another bite. Even food had been diminished. Not that porridge had ever been the fare of notability, but Surge was actually a good cook, and, usually, he managed to keep a garrison full of childish Musketeers happy. Aramis just didn’t have a taste for it anymore. It wasn’t that the world had been drained of flavor and color. Aramis and his ever sharp eyes just couldn’t see it anymore.</p><p>And, damn it all to hell, he missed him!</p><p>“I miss him too.” Porthos grumbled, as if he could hear his best friend’s dark thoughts.</p><p>Aramis looked across the table at him.</p><p>With a tired sigh of his own, Porthos set his spoon down in his bowl and pushed it back. Crossing his arms over his big chest, he looked back at him and waited.</p><p>And, suddenly, he just broke. Shaking his head, Aramis told him “It isn’t true! I know! I know what you saw! What happened! I know it all! But I also know he isn’t dead!” He pounded a fist against his chest. “I can feel it! I know he isn’t dead! And we just left him! Left him behind as surely as if he was laying in the snow, bleeding out….”</p><p>“Aramis!” Porthos groaned. “Weren’t Savvoy…”</p><p>“I know!” Aramis snapped. Taking a deep breath, he all but whimpered “I know.” Again he shook his head. “I just… I can’t accept it… I won’t! I won’t accept it!” He turned pleading eyes up to his big brother.</p><p>Porthos stared at him for a breath or two, before he seemed to deflate. “You always did feel more than the rest of us. All those pretty words and thoughts just clogging up the simple things…”</p><p>“d’Artagnan isn’t some simple thing.” Aramis corrected sharply.</p><p>Porthos blinked at him. His voice dropped, his tone took on an edge of its own “No, he ain’t.”</p><p>Aramis wasn’t so lost that he missed the change. He blinked, studying his brother for a moment, before leaning forward and asking “What do you believe?”</p><p>The big man’s eyes narrowed, suspiciously. He leaned back, snatched up his spoon and took another bite.</p><p>“’Port…” </p><p>“Don’t ya Port me!” Porthos snapped. </p><p>Aramis leaned back again, knowing better than to push. Instead he took up his spoon again and took a bite. He still didn’t want to eat, still didn’t taste anything. But it made Porthos happy and that was good enough reason.</p><p>Porthos let the silence settle between them for another few moments. He dropped his eyes and stabbed at his porridge. “I don’t know.” He mumbled. He shook his head, angry at himself. “I believe we’d all sleep better if we could have the pup back… alive or… or dead!... Jus’ to know for sure.” He pushed his bowl back. “It’s the not knowin’ ‘at’s killin’ me.” He looked up again. “Ya know?”</p><p>Aramis sighed. “Yea… the not knowing.”</p><p>“It’s killin’ ‘im too, ya know.” Porthos added, throwing his chin toward the garrison gate.</p><p>Aramis turned to see who Porthos was talking about.</p><p>Athos was coming in through the gate looking as if he was in worse shape than Aramis. His clothing was roughed up as if he slept in them for the last week, yet the darkness around his eyes showed that he hadn’t been doing much sleeping in all that time. He didn’t even look, much less acknowledged, the greetings from the Musketeers guarding the gate as he passed them. His hair was an unkept mess. And he was shaking his hand as if…</p><p>“’e’s ‘it somethin’ again.” Porthos grumbled.</p><p>“Oh course he has.” Aramis groaned. “It’s what he does. Hit first, hit second, hit again, get drunk, hit some more…”</p><p>“Wish ‘e’d get drunk.” His big brother protested. “Know ‘ow to ‘andle drunk ‘Thos.”</p><p>“Athos!” came a call as Constance came storming in right behind the Musketeer Lieutenant.</p><p>The man responded to that, turning to greet the woman. “Madam…”</p><p>Constance struck him across the face with a ringing slap that snapped his head to the side.</p><p>“Woe!” Aramis gasped at the sudden violence. Being on the end of that slap a time or two, he had all the sympathy in the world for Athos. On the other hand… “My Lord, she is feisty!”</p><p>Porthos only response was to bark out a signal “HA!”</p><p>Of course, when her raging eyes snapped to them, both men turned quickly back to their porridge, suddenly very preoccupied with eating. Even the men at the gate became rather interested in something on the ground in front of their stations. Still, Aramis and Porthos leaned toward them, their ears perked up, when she turned back to Athos.</p><p>Rubbing his cheek, working his jaw, Athos wondered “Is there something I may assist you with, Madam?”</p><p>“Yes, you may!” Constance stood before him, her hands on her hips, glaring up at him, looking every bit the lamb daring the lion. “You can stop lying to yourself!”</p><p>Athos tiled his head to one side. “I don’t…”</p><p>“Shut it!” the woman snapped, shaking a finger at him. “You can stand there and tell all of France until you are blue in the face that d’Artagnan is dead!” she choked on that word, having to swallow down enough emotion to continue. “You might even believe the words by the time you push them out of your mouth! But you, in your heart, don’t believe it!”</p><p>Athos seemed to deflate, his shoulders sagging, his arms falling limp to his side. “Constance…” he started again.</p><p>The woman reached out with a surprisingly gentle hand to set it over his heart. “I know what you are doing.” She told him, her tone hushed enough that Aramis and Porthos actually dared to rise to come closer so they could hear better. “You’re trying to protect us, trying to bare the whole load alone. Trying to save us from the pain of doubt. And we love you for it.” Then her hand slapped him in the chest. “Now stop it! You’re not in this alone! d’Artagnan is just as important to us…” she waved a hand Porthos and Aramis who looked rather startled to suddenly being dragged into this, “… as he is to you! We deserve the right to doubt and to worry and wonder and… and hope!”</p><p>“What hope?” Athos shook his head. </p><p>Constance raised her chin. “Marquis Henri d’Albret came to see the Queen today.” She told him.</p><p>The Musketeer frowned. “Why?” he wondered.</p><p>“He has news from a source.” She leaned close to him. “He wants to go back. He asked the Queen to help him convince the King to allow him to go back.” She looked over her shoulder to where Treville was coming down the stairs from his office, attracted by the commotion. “She sent me to call for the Captain.” Again she shook her finger at him. “So, stop lying to yourself! If you have a chance of going back for him, then you need to convince them that there’s a reason to!” That said, she turned on her heal and stomped across the yard to Treville.</p><p>Athos stared after her for a moment before he turned and nearly ran into the grinning Porthos. </p><p>“Told ya, didn’t she!” the big man teased him.</p><p>Athos scowled at him. With a growl, he pushed passed him, but nearly ran into Aramis. </p><p>“Is she right? You think you’re protecting us?” Aramis asked softly. They hadn’t actually spoken to each other since Athos had had him pinned to the wall. Aramis had no idea if he was going to end up slammed against a wall again. But he had to know! He needed Athos to tell him! He needed Athos!</p><p>His brother tried to turn his scowl on him, but guilt and his own agony of doubt wouldn’t allow him to hold it. His eyes dropped and he rubbed his wounded knuckles against his chest, desperately trying to find a way out.</p><p>Aramis sighed. “Give me your hand.” Not waiting for him, he took the limb and turned the hand over, inspecting the damage. “Athos.” he groaned, shaking his head. “You must stop this belligerence toward inanimate objects.” He told him as he stepped away to snatch a bottle from the table.</p><p>Porthos put his big hand on Athos shoulder and told him “Brother, you have a problem.”</p><p>“Is it a prejudice?” Aramis wondered as he returned to splash some alcohol on the split skin. He waited for Athos’ hiss to end before he started to wrap the hand. “I mean, is it a hatred of all walls, or just certain walls?”</p><p>“Yea. Is it wood frames too? Or ‘ust brick ‘n’ mortar?”</p><p>“Seriously!” Aramis snapped the knot a little, earning another hiss from his friend, before looking up at him. “What did the wall do this time?”</p><p>Athos allowed a twitch of his lips at the return of the old and familiar banter. “Didn’t get out of my way.” He growled.</p><p>“Ha!” Porthos hooted. “’oulda shot it too fer that!” </p><p>Aramis offered up a gentle smile as he looked up into Athos’ tired face. </p><p>Athos blinked at him. After a moment, he asked “Yea?”</p><p>His brother gave a half shrug. “Yea.” He answered. </p><p>An apology and a forgiveness.</p><p>Porthos clapped them both of the shoulders. “So? ‘e gonna go get our pup back or ‘at?”</p><p>0o0o0</p><p>King Louis’ expression was one of excessive excitement as he listened, once more, to the telling of his cousin Henri’s mission. He leaned forward at the details of how they crossed the border incognito. His eyes grew wide with alarm at the discovery of their being surrounded by the ruthless and vile enemy. His hands couldn’t stay still as the battle within the hidden tunnels was detailed. His chin rose and his heart pounded at the telling of the self-sacrifice of the youngest of his so very brave Musketeers. His breath quickened at the race to the safety and security of France’s ever loving arms.</p><p>It was no real wonder that the usually childish Louis responded to the story with such glee and elation. However, it was quite the testimony to Henri’s story telling capability that he had rendered the King to this state with the same tale at least half a dozen times. Usually, Louis would have been bored by the second telling.</p><p>This telling was taking place in one of the many sitting rooms off the throne room of the Louvre Palace. King Louis and Queen Anne sat at the table, while Cardinal Richelieu and Captain Treville stood to either side waiting to be turned to when the time came.</p><p>As the last words faded, the King rose to his feet, clapping his hands with a huge, gaping smile across his face. “Bravo! Bravo!” he cheered. “What an adventure! Such bravery in the face of such odds! What an adventure indeed!” He threw a look to his First Minister. “Was it not a thrilling tale of adventure, Cardinal Richelieu?!”</p><p>The tall Cardinal looked down on the shorter Marquis from where he stood beside the table. “Indeed.” He dragged out. “Truly a disappointment that it was all for nothing.” His mono-tone just rang with how unimpressed he was with the little Marquis. </p><p>Henri seemed just as unimpressed with the Cardinal. Keeping his bright eyes on the King, he told him “It was by no courage of my own that we returned to Paris. It was the Musketeers alone, in particularly young d’Artagnan, who are to be credited with such a deed.” He waved a hand to where Athos, Aramis, and Porthos stood quietly behind their Captain. “Sire, without their immeasurable courage and expertise, I would not be before you today.”</p><p>Louis beamed at his Musketeers. “Of course! And each should be rewarded! Cardinal, what would be a proper reward for my wonderful Musketeers?”</p><p>“For a failed mission?” Richelieu huffed.</p><p>“If I may, your Majesty?” Queen Anne spoke up from where she sat in her seat, delegate hands clasped in her lap. When Louis glanced back at his wife, she offered him a soft, motherly smile that she knew had a calming effect on her husband. “I do believe our dear cousin has a request to appease all.” She gracefully bowed her head to Henri.</p><p>Louis blinked at her, before turning back to his cousin. “Indeed?” he inquired, some of his giddiness fading with his wife’s intervention. Returning to his seat, he wondered “What is it you have in mind?”</p><p>Henri clasped his hands in front of him and lowered his eyes in a dutifully remorseful way. “As our ever wise Cardinal has pointed out, the mission was a failure.”  </p><p>The King was quick to shake his head. “Due to no fault of your own….” He was quick to assure. </p><p>But, again, Anne intervened. “Louis, let him finish.” She hushed soft enough so it would seem almost private between the husband and wife.</p><p>Louis clamped his mouth shut.</p><p>“And, yet, it remains fact, it failed.” Henri continued. “In truth the loss of a possible detail of Spain’s plans is of little bother.”</p><p>Richelieu huffed.</p><p>“After all!” Henri over spoke the Cardinal’s dissatisfaction. “What is the loss of something that was only a possibility in the first place.” He shook his head. “No, dear cousin, the great failure is in the loss of Musketeer d’Artagnan. It pains me to know that I was the cause of this tragedy. That, without him, the guard of our most valued treasure, our beloved King and Queen, is so much more diminished. And those left to carry on are that more wounded for the lack of their brother at arms by their side.”</p><p>Moved by his words, Louis put a hand to his heart and had the good graces to look saddened. “Yes, he was a most loyal and inspiring young man. Such enthusiasm…” He turned a sudden smile up to his Cardinal. “Do you remember, Armand, how he, but a trainee, bested that Captain of yours? What a display! He was like a young wolf on the hunt!”</p><p>“Indeed.” Richelieu remembered, yet another unfavorable memory of the boy in question.</p><p>But then Louis frowned. Turning back to Henri, he asked “But what does this have to do with rewards?”</p><p>“Your Majesty, though there is little doubt that d’Artagnan ended up in the hands of the Spanish, there is some doubt to his current welfare.”</p><p>The King’s frown deepened as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to fathom his point.</p><p>Rolling her eyes, Anne stepped in with a staged gasp and “Dear Lord, do you mean to suggest that d’Artagnan may still be alive and in need of rescue?”</p><p>As if a bell had been rung, Louis leaped to his feet once more. “What?! How is this possible? He must be rescued! At once! Treville, call the guard! Call the army! Call…. Call…”</p><p>“Sire!” Richelieu snapped, silencing the boy king. When all eyes turned to the Cardinal, the tall man took a deep breath and spoke in such a calm tone it could nearly have been described as icy “Such an armed rescue of a man who was, technically, illegally in Spain as a spy would be a call to war. A war we do not want!”</p><p>“We don’t?”</p><p>“No! We! Do! Not! Want!” Putting on his best remorseful expression, the Cardinal turned to Henri. “I, too, am saddened by the loss of this talented young man with such boundless potential.”</p><p>This time it was Porthos who huffed, but was quickly silenced by Aramis’ boot heal against his shin. </p><p>Richelieu barely spared them a glance, before he continued. “Regretfully, risking more men to rescue just this one would be a potentially devastating blow to the fragile peace between our countries. If it was discovered that the King’s own Musketeers had crossed into Spain it would surely mean war!”</p><p>Louis frowned. He did understand that war was something they did not want. Still, he looked to Treville to supply an answer.</p><p>The Captain stood ramrod straight, his hands clasped at the small of his back. Feeling every bit the traitor, he said “The First Minister is correct, Majesty. Musketeers found in Spain would be an act of war.” He ignored the hiss from behind him, not needing to look to know Athos was seething. </p><p>“Don’t they already have one of my Musketeers?” the young King pointed out.</p><p>Richelieu shook his head. “If they knew he was our man, we would have heard about it by now. The boy is either remaining silent or, more likely, dead. Either would be sad state.”</p><p>“Soun’ all broken up, ‘on’t ‘e.” Porthos grumbled.</p><p>“Shhh.” Aramis hissed. </p><p>“And how long do you expect even someone as brave and strong as a Musketeer to remain silent?” Henri wondered, his tone just hinted at a harshness. He turned imploring eyes to his cousin. “Every man has his limits, Louis. Even now, your so very loyal d’Artagnan is probably biting his lip to keep from crying out at the pain he must be enduring. Pain that Spain, in all her cruelty, has mastered the delivery of. He will bare down, no doubt! By strength of will alone, he will endure and suffer unimaginable agony to keep his secret, that he is a Musketeer. But, have no doubt, there will be a moment, a breath, a searing stab of pain, that will break him… and, then! Then Spain will know who and what he is!”</p><p>“If he is alive!” Richelieu spoke again, throwing the royal cousin a glare. “Which is highly in question!” He turned back to the King. “Sire, the question is not whether or not the boy…”</p><p>“d’Artagnan!” Athos snarled. </p><p>The Cardinal paused, lowering his eyes. When he looked up, he began again: “The question is not whether or not d’Artagnan is alive. It is whether or not the possible life of one Musketeer is worth the risk of them all.”</p><p>Treville had an answer for that: “All for one and one for all.” Despite his earlier statement, the Captain declared “There is not a man among our ranks that would not gladly give his life to bring d’Artagnan home… alive or… otherwise.” He raised his chin. “Myself included.”</p><p>“Damn straight!” Porthos huffed all but thunking his chest.</p><p>“No!” Louis’ answer to that was swift and resolute. “You are not to go, Captain! I will not lose you! I cannot! Is that understood?”</p><p>Treville gritted his teeth. </p><p>Richelieu hummed his frustration before reiterating “If we send Musketeers into Spain there will be war! Even the suggestion that you considered it, this very conversation, if heard by the wrong ears, could be cause for Spain’s retaliation.”</p><p>King Louis pressed his lips together, his brow scrunched up as he tried to work it all out. “No, no… that won’t due.” He mumbled almost to himself.</p><p>Anne leaned forward. “I believe, Sire, that the Marquis has a different suggestion.”</p><p>Louis glanced at her, then turned back to his cousin.</p><p>Henri offered the Queen a slight smile in appreciation, before suggesting “Do not send your Musketeers to Spain, Majesty.”</p><p>The King spread his hands in a bewildered shrug. </p><p>Even Richelieu looked perplexed. “Exactly what are you suggesting, Marquis?” he all but demanded.</p><p>Ignoring the Cardinal, Henri continued “As you said, cousin, the Musketeers should be rewarded for their bravery and sacrifice. And I wish to return to my estates to recover from my harrowing ordeal. I suggest that you allow these three brave souls, Athos, Aramis, and Porthos, to escort me home where they may remain for a matter of time to relax and recover themselves.”</p><p>The Cardinal frowned.</p><p>King Louis tilted his head to one side. “Isn’t your estate near our southern boarder?”</p><p>Henri looked overly innocent as he admitted “Why, yes, so it is.”</p><p>Louis’ eyes widened. “Very close to Spain, in fact.”</p><p>“I hear it’s very relaxing there.” Aramis was quick to offer.</p><p>“’ey, I could use ‘ome recoverin’.” Porthos was just as quick to agree.</p><p>Athos simply grunted.</p><p>Surprisingly, Richelieu considered the Musketeers. “A holiday?”</p><p>Louis suddenly grinned, shaking his finger. “Oooooh, I see what you did there.”</p><p>“No, you don’t.” Richelieu quickly corrected.</p><p>“Oh, but I do!” the excited King turned to his wife. “Anne, do you see what he did there? What they’re really planning is…”</p><p>“Louis.” Anne hushed him. “No, you really should not see what he did there.” Her tone was gentle as if she were calming a child.</p><p>Louis paused. He titled his head, considering. Then snapped his fingers. “Of course!” He spun about to face their audience, clapping his hands together. “What a wonderful idea, my dear cousin! A holiday! For our loyal Musketeers! And they will see you safely to your estates… Don’t you have an out of the way hunting cabin? I seem to remember some wonderful fishing and some rather impressive bucks. Oh, I wish I could go myself!” He quickly focused on his Captain. “Treville, you must see that these poor men have leave to go and… recover!” He glanced over his shoulder at his wife. “What or who they recover now…”</p><p>“Indeed!” the Cardinal cut him off. He turned to face the Musketeer Captain. “May I have your word that you will not send Musketeers into Spain?” </p><p>Treville smirked. “You have my word. Once they have delivered the Marquis to his estates, they will not even be Musketeers for the next month… perhaps season.”</p><p>Louis clapped his hands. “Then it is settled. Cousin, I wish you a safe journey home.” He held his hands wide. “And my Musketeers… I pray for your success…”<br/>“Successful recovery.” Anne finished, stepping up to stand beside the King. “We shall both will pray for you.”</p><p>Louis couldn’t help but add “And good hunting!”</p><p>0o0o0</p><p>There was no telling of time. There was no sky to see, no rhythm to the comings and goings, no regular mealtimes. </p><p>Sometimes he would be so hungry his belly would twist and lurch, like turning a bag inside out in search of the last crumb. Other times it seemed as if food came within blinks of the eye. </p><p>Even the air stayed the same, whether night or day, summer or fall… could winter have already come? Gone? It didn’t matter, the temperature and dampness didn’t change. Without even undergarments to protect him or offer some form of modesty, the only shift in the air was when pain burned or water cooled.</p><p>Sleep was just as irregular. If it could be considered sleep. He didn’t really sleep. He spent time unconscious, having fainted due to pain or blood loss, or exhaustion or hunger. But he didn’t really sleep. One breath he’d be hanging from the ceiling, whips pealing away the flesh of his back or hot irons laying waste to the soles of his feet. The next breath he’d be waking up in his cell, laying on fresh hay, his body still stinging from the salt water used to clean his wounds. </p><p>The only tell he had of the passage of time was the cuts on his lips from where his teeth had dug in, holding back any word that might try to escape in the throws of agony. Had the cut stopped bleeding? How much did it sting? Was it crusted over?</p><p>He allowed not one word pass his lips. </p><p>It was all they asked of him.<br/>They didn’t ask his name or who he was or where he was from. They didn’t even ask why he was there.<br/>One word.<br/>Any word!<br/>And it would all stop!<br/>All the pain and agony and humiliation…<br/>With only one word it could all come to an end.</p><p>But he knew, giving in, giving up just that one word, would be the end of him. He would be broken. One word would lead to another and then another and then anything to make sure the pain didn’t return. And he would not give up. He would not give them that one word. </p><p>He used to try to think of happier times, happier places, happier people, letting his mind escape the pain, even if his body could not. But, in one moment of weakness, he nearly cried out for one of his brothers to save him. He had bitten his tongue that time, so hard his mouth had filled with blood and he choked. Never again! He would never allow himself that escape again. Occasionally images and wishes slipped into his thoughts, but he shoved them away, buried them down so deep, he couldn’t even find them in his dreams.</p><p>He could not give in! It was the only thing he had left to hold onto. It was all that he had left. The one thing they had not taken from.</p><p>Or so he had thought.</p><p>When the henchmen lead him out of his cell to the wooden table, forced him down across it, splinters digging into his bruised and tender belly, and shackled his wrists with leathers straps that cut into already raw flesh, he had expected the usual. Knives, hot irons, whips… he had licked his lips, wondering how long before he would chew the damn things right off. </p><p>Then He entered the room. <br/>The Master. <br/>The Nightmare. <br/>Satan his very self.<br/>Peter Trastámara.</p><p>But, unlike all other times, Peter appeared to be wearing nothing but a loincloth. </p><p>He didn’t understand as Peter walked about the table, running his heavy hand over his back. He couldn’t help but try to twist his head to see what was happening as the Monster mover behind him. It wasn’t until his feet were kicked apart, that, suddenly, he understood. Fear and horror gripped his chest like nothing ever before as that heavy hand caressed his hips, his thighs... He squirmed, tried to twist away, even though he knew it was futile. </p><p>How could he escape?<br/>Where would he go?<br/>Who would rescue him?</p><p>No, he was all alone with no way, nowhere, and no one to offer hope.</p><p>A heavy hand pressed down on the small of his back pinning him as he felt the other separates his butt cheeks, exposing him so utterly.</p><p>No, no, no, no… his mind screamed, and he bit down on his lip, squeezing his eyes close. Stop, stop, stop! Don’t do this! Don’t do this! Please! But not a word escaped.</p><p>Then it happened.</p><p>Without any preparation, without a word. Peter thrust forward, his cock ripping through delegate flesh and tight muscle, cutting through until he could go no deeper.</p><p>A scream was torn from his throat, bloody spittle flying out as his lip tore.</p><p>Powerful hands gripped his hips, fingers digging into his flesh, as Peter rutted into him, giving no time for his body to adjust to the intrusion. The Beast grunted with each thrust, oblivious to the blood that seemed around his weapon and down his victim’s legs. </p><p>He shook his head, fighting the cries that he just couldn’t swallow down. Each pounding his him like a punch in the gut, but from the inside, forcing the air from his lungs. He felt his attacker’s fingers claw their way up his back, gripping his shoulders for leverage to slam into him even deeper, forcing out another scream. </p><p>Still rutting in him, Peter leaned over his back, hissing in his ear, his hot, heavy breath leaving droplets on the sensitive flesh. “One word… one word and this can stop…” he encouraged.</p><p>He bit down on what was left of his lip. </p><p>When he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the grunting and thrusting became erratic. Then the Beast arched back, letting out a cry of his own, and his gut filled with acid, hot cum burning over torn flesh and muscle. With one more thrust, the huffing and puffing rapist stepped back, withdrawing with a sloppy sound pop.</p><p>Peter stepped back around the table so he could be seen by his victim. He ran a sticky finger over his cheek, wiping away tears. “One word…. Just one little word…”</p><p>Despite his agony, despite suffering the unthinkable, dark, hate filled eyes glared up at him defiantly.</p><p>The Monster chuckled. :My, you are a willful creature, aren’t you?!” But then he waved to a henchman. “Good. My men are bored with just watching.”</p><p>His eyes widened as the henchman began to circle around him while tugging on the laces to his britches. </p><p>0o0o0o0</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Ch. 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter Four</p>
<p>The Marquis Henri d’Albret was a man of infinite optimism.<br/>
The glass was always half full.<br/>
Tomorrow would always be a better day.<br/>
When you’re positive, good things happen.<br/>
Die with memories, not dreams.<br/>
A stolen secret will lead to a lost brother.</p>
<p>Athos, on the other hand, was a pessimist. </p>
<p>The Musketeer frowned at the Marquis. “A rumor?”</p>
<p>“Rumors have been known to start many things, brother.” Aramis pointed out.</p>
<p>“How many of those things have been worth any good?” Athos snapped. </p>
<p>Aramis flinched at the tone.  </p>
<p>Athos glanced sharply at his brother’s flinch. He ground his teeth in frustration. Seemed like he had been living his life in a perpetual existence of frustration since the moment some Gascon farm boy had stormed the Musketeer Garrison, yelling out his name in a challenge to the death!</p>
<p>It had been eight days getting to Paris, six days wasted there, another seven hard riding to d’Albret’s estates, and yet another two days while the Marquis met with his “contact” and gathered the information he had for them while they settled themselves into the hunting lodge at the farthest corner of the property.<br/>
Twenty-three days that they had wasted!<br/>
Twenty-three days d’artagnan had been in Spanish hands!<br/>
If he was even still alive!</p>
<p>And for what? Hope hanging on a rumor?<br/>
Hope that, for a man like Aramis, all heart and faith, was all but a promise. A promise, Athos feared, that could break that heart his brother wore so prominently on his sleeve. </p>
<p>“’Mis…” Porthos groaned. </p>
<p>“Forgive me for having a little faith!” Aramis gave the table a kick of his own frustration, before stomping off a few feet to cross his arms over his chest and lean a shoulder against a window frame. It was Aramis’ version of a pout.</p>
<p>Again Athos found himself grinding his teeth.</p>
<p>“Gentlemen.” Henri called the room back to himself. When the three Musketeers looked at him, he tapped the map on the table. “I dare say, the endeavor of espionage is a game of rumors.”</p>
<p>Athos gave him a hard look. “This is not a game.” He growled. “Their lives…” he bobbed his head toward his brothers, “… are not a game!”</p>
<p>Porthos and Aramis exchanged concerned glances. Aramis pushed away from the window. “Athos, your own life…”</p>
<p>Their Lieutenant held up a hand. “Peace, Aramis. I am too tired to go a round with you over this… again! Just…” he huffed and waved a hand at the Marquis. “Just get on with it!”</p>
<p>Henri met Athos seemingly permanent scowl with his own steady and poised look. “Sir, my intention was not to offer offence. I only meant that rumor is always the coin of espionage. And, if we are not to march an army into Spain to politely knock on Trastámara’s door with a request of a moment of his time, than rumor is the coin we are to use.”</p>
<p>Athos’ eyes narrowed. </p>
<p>But it was Porthos’ deep voice that answered “Aye, we get it.” He glanced at his brothers as he stepped up to the table. “Don’t like it, but we get it.”</p>
<p>Henri bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I would not expect honorable soldiers like yourself to like it at all. Alas…” he offered a shrug. “As life is…”</p>
<p>“Life is as it is.” Athos capitulated. Letting out a deep sigh, he leaned on his knuckles over the table. He glared down at the papers. </p>
<p>Henri leaned forward and explained again “My contact says that the day after our altercation it was seen that Trastámara’s men were seen moving a prisoner with dark hair from the ruins to their chalet only a few miles from the site. There are further reports of talkative soldiers gabbing about their masters’ new plaything…”</p>
<p>A snarl from Porthos interrupted him there.</p>
<p>The nobleman glanced up at the big man apologetically. “Their words, not mine, I assure you.”</p>
<p>“No assurance ‘at is.” Porthos growled. </p>
<p>Athos pushed forward. “It is still hearsay. There is no actual evidence that whoever that is is d’Artagnan…”</p>
<p>“Athos!” Aramis protested. “The timing, the description, the location… who else could it be?” </p>
<p>“I don’t know!” Athos barked. “What happened to the contact? The first contact? The one that stabbed Porthos? Remember him?”</p>
<p>Aramis looked at him as if he had said the Spanish had the Pope, himself, in their torturous clutches. Shaking his head, he had to wonder “Why are you fighting this?”</p>
<p>Athos just glared down at the table, searching for something, but finding just more what-ifs and possiblies. Rumors!</p>
<p>“Because he is afraid.” Henri observed. When Athos eyes snapped up to strike him with a nearly physical blow, the Marquis matched him, eye for eye. In a calm, almost gentle tone, he told the others without turning away “What if I’m wrong? What if that person, if he even is a prisoner, is not our lost lamb? What if we risk war for nothing? Worse: what if he loses another brother for nothing?” He held up a hand when he could see both the other Musketeers start toward their brother at his words. When they stilled, he continued “Worse of all: what if I’m right? It has been nearly a month that the boy has been in the hands of the most vicious bastards of the most cruelest nation… Spain is the master of creative brutality, a skill that they would bring to full use in breaking young d’Artagnan. Even if we do get him back without loss of French life or threat of war… would safe and sound really be an adequate description for his condition? Would there be anything left of that fine, young man… full of hope and promise, dreams and love, ready to laugh and tease… what would be left but a broken and damaged shadow of the soul we had known and, dare I say, loved? And, the whole time, that boy suffered each day, wondering where you were, why didn’t you save him… where were his big brothers when he screamed for them to help him…”</p>
<p>The three Musketeers stared at him for a moment before Aramis actually whimpered. He spun away, crossing his arms over his chest again as if hugging himself.</p>
<p>Athos dropped his chin to his chest, squeezing his eyes closed against the image Henri had painted in his mind’s eye. d’Artagnan’s dark eyes glistening with tears as he pleaded for him, his mentor, his protector, his brother… pleading, begging him to do something, anything…</p>
<p>Porthos glanced back and forth between his brothers. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Two of the bravest men he had ever known were crumbling before his eyes! Moments before they needed to be whole and strong for the sake of their own little whelp, and they were breaking! Surging forward he slammed his fists down on the table. “HEY!” he roared at them. </p>
<p>Both Athos and Aramis snapped about to look up at him.</p>
<p>The big man glared down at them, his eyes storming. “Who the ‘ell said any of us was gonna get out of any of this all pretty and shiny? Ain’t in the cards! Not for you! Not for me! Not for d’Art! We Musketeers! We get scarred and broken, burned and hurt! And, yea, often enough, we get dead! The one damn thing we don’t get… That’s giving up on one another! If you don’t remember nothing else, you sure as hell better remember that! All for One and One for All!” He snatched Athos arm, forcing the man to look at him. “You think d’Art broke? You think he let them bastards tare him down? No fucking way in ‘ell! And if he can hold on, then you fucking well can hold on!” He practically threw the arm away as if in disgust. “Instead of wasting energy on self-pity and wallowing in what might be… maybe you should start thinkin’ on ‘ow we gonna get ‘im outta that ‘ell whole!”</p>
<p>Athos raised an eyebrow at him.</p>
<p>“What?” Porthos snapped.</p>
<p>“Do you realize your Court accent becomes quite prominent the angrier you get?” the man observed.</p>
<p>Porthos blinked at him, a little taken back by the response. “Fuck you!” he snarled, but there was no real threat in his tone.</p>
<p>“Later.” Aramis suggested as he returned to the table quickly. He scooted the papers clear of the map. “I have an idea on how we can get in there.” He tapped his finger on the Trastámara Chalet.</p>
<p>“How?” Henri was quick to ask, but not without overlapping Athos’ “I’m not gonna like this, am I?”</p>
<p>Aramis shrugged. “Well, no… but is there anything you are going to like that doesn’t involved the Spanish walking the kid across the border, unharmed, with an ‘oops, sorry about that’ and a signed peace treaty?”</p>
<p>“Humph. That’d be bloody kind of them.” Porthos offered.</p>
<p>Athos huffed himself. “Alright. How?”</p>
<p>“I am going to get myself arrested.” Aramis told them rather proudly.</p>
<p>Athos blinked at him as if he was still waiting for the punch line.</p>
<p>Porthos, on the other hand… “Bloody ‘ell you are!” he started to roar again. “What? You wan’ us to keep chuckin’ rabbits at the wolves and wonder why ‘ey don’t fly away?”</p>
<p>“I am not a rabbit.” Aramis pointed out. When Porthos opened his mouth to retort, he quickly held his hand up. “Peace, brother. Please. Just hear me out.” </p>
<p>Seething, the big Musketeer clamped his mouth shut and crossed his arms over his chest, just daring his best friend to try and convince him that this was a good idea. </p>
<p>Aramis turned his attention to Athos who still stood, looking at him, as if nothing had been said. “The Trastámara is the lord of the area. Any offender on his lands will be brought to him to pass judgement.”</p>
<p>“It’s true.” Henri quickly supported. “The Trastámaras are very strict in these matters.”</p>
<p>Aramis continued “I… misbehave in some tavern and I get taken to his lordship to get judgement passed. Held in his cells, I can see if d’Artagnan is there. When you come to get me out I’ll either have him or know if there is anyone to have.”</p>
<p>“And jus’ ‘ow the ‘ell are we supposed to get you out?” Porthos demanded.</p>
<p>“Ransom!” again the Marquis was quick to supply. “Trastámara are very big on funding their particular… ventures with ransoms.”</p>
<p>“Ransom?” Porthos made a show of pulling a few coins from his pocket and counting them. He glanced at Athos. “’ow much you think ‘Mis is worth? Ten? Twelve?”</p>
<p>Athos smirked. “Eight, perhaps.” He suggested.</p>
<p>Aramis frowned at his brothers. A hand over his heart, he gasped “I am wounded.”</p>
<p>Henri chuckled, shaking his head. “I, of course, will offer the ransom. In Spanish bloom as well if we are to keep the French name out of it.” He offered a shrug. “I would be going as high as fifty, fifty-five…”</p>
<p>Aramis gave a wounded sound.</p>
<p>“And, if we are to keep France out of it,” Athos wondered, getting back on topic, “how do we deliver said ransom when our only Spanish speaker is the one being ransomed?”</p>
<p>“You speak Spanish.” Aramis pointed out.</p>
<p>“Not well enough.” Athos argued. “Not well enough to walk in there and convince them that I am someone who should be collecting you.”</p>
<p>“I hired thug could be from any lands. Porthos, perhaps…” Henri was going to suggest.</p>
<p>“Don’t speak a bit o’ word o’ it!” Porthos interrupted that idea. “Twist the tongue in ways it just should not go.” He went on to complain.</p>
<p>“Well, a flexible tongue…” Aramis started, a twinkle in his eyes.</p>
<p>“None of that, now!” Porthos growled, shaking a finger at him. “There’s gentlemen present.”</p>
<p>Aramis chuckled.</p>
<p>Henri frowned. “Then, perhaps I…”</p>
<p>Three resounding “No!” put that thought down before it could even be completed. </p>
<p>Henri raised an eyebrow at the Musketeers. “Well, then, my friends… do you wish to give up? To call it a lost cause?”</p>
<p>Both Porthos and Aramis found themselves biting their tongues as they turned to Athos. </p>
<p>Athos ground his teeth, glaring at the papers across the table. After a moment, he straightened up. “It is a day and a half to our destination. We will take up to another day to scout the area and decide on a plan.” He gave each of his brothers a good, hard look. “We will return with d’Artagnan… or with the knowledge that he no longer suffers.” He promised them.</p>
<p>“All for One…” Aramis prompted.</p>
<p>Porthos finished “One for All.”</p>
<p>0o0o0</p>
<p>He used to imagine his friends, his brothers coming to his rescue. He would dream of it, of them storming the castle. They wouldn’t waste breath on battle cries, though a couple of them would get mouthy with the Spanish that dared to stand in their way. He would hear their pounding boots as they ran down the hall, the smashing as the door was kicked in, the roar as they charged in, all brave and gallant and full of rage. Blood would slick the floor as they’d cut and sliced their way through the tens, hundreds even, that dared to threaten one of their own, one of their brothers! His cell would be opened, his chains clanging to the floor. They would lift him up in hugs and pommel him with pats on the back. Offer him brandy and a clean shirt. Then off they would ride… together… away from this shithole… letting it burn in their wake.</p>
<p>When the pain was at its worse, his humiliation dragged him to his lowest, their names would be just on the tip of his tongue. He would almost call out for them, cry for them, pray and beg for them to come. Just their names would have been enough to sooth his pain.</p>
<p>He used to imagine them coming to his rescue.</p>
<p>But he stopped.</p>
<p>“Just one word…” Peter would whisper in his ear, his hot breath burning his tender flesh as sure as if it was a flame. “Just one word…” again and again and again.</p>
<p>He would not do it!<br/>
He could not do it!<br/>
One word would be a failure…<br/>
A surrender…<br/>
A betrayal!<br/>
And he could not betray them! </p>
<p>Even if it was to whimper their names as he curled up in the straw on the floor of his cell, reeking of blood and abuse, his body torn apart by violence and worse, his sanity hanging on only by the memories of… of….</p>
<p>No, he would not think of them!<br/>
He would not remember them!<br/>
He would not imagine them!<br/>
He would not betray them!<br/>
He would not risk a word!</p>
<p>So he stopped thinking of them, stopped dreaming of them, stopped fantasizing a  rescue…</p>
<p>Stopped hoping.<br/>
Stopped everything.</p>
<p>Everything except his hate, his rage…</p>
<p>He only allows himself to see the animals he hates so much…<br/>
their filthy grins as they kick him…<br/>
their laughter as he stumbles under their whip…<br/>
their grunts as they rut up against him, into him…</p>
<p>He hates so much that he doesn’t care if they hurt him more. He strikes out at them every chance he gets. </p>
<p>A freed hand comes back with bloody knuckles or skin under his nails.</p>
<p>His fingers are dislocated and broken; sticks slid under his fingernails.</p>
<p>An unwatched foot sweeps men to the floor.</p>
<p>The soles of his feet are beaten and skinned.</p>
<p>A head butt smashes noses.</p>
<p>His head is shaved, left bare and bloody.</p>
<p>Teeth sink into flesh.</p>
<p>His mouth is pride open, screws twisted, widening steel jaws until his own jaw pops. Left for hours, unable to close his mouth.</p>
<p>No matter the horrors they deliver onto his body, he forces his eyes up to glare at Peter whenever he stands before him and encourages “Just one word…” </p>
<p>0o0o0o0</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Had trouble with the last part of this. Took me forever writing and rewriting and rerewriting. Finally I just slapped it up and gave it a kiss for good wishes, and here's me sending it on its way.<br/>Please feedback!<br/>Pretty Please!!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter Five</p><p>The small town under Trastámara rule was not entirely what Aramis had been expecting. </p><p>Like most small towns, it had a tavern and inn, a blacksmith and livery stables, a fountain in the center of the square and an open market, solid enough looking houses and a few modest homes with flower gardens. </p><p>What was the odd bit was the way the residences carried themselves. Straight backs, watchful eyes, proud stances. Many were missing limbs or disfigured in some way: a face cut in half, skin horrifically burned… battle scars. The men of this town may be farmers and merchants now, but they had once been soldiers! Battle tested soldiers at that.</p><p>The town was not on the main road through Spain to France, but it was a well enough traveled road that strangers only received curious glances and only a few stares. A few men walked around with authority, armed to the teeth, seemingly patrolling the town, though there didn’t seem to be any sign of crime.</p><p>When one such local guard stopped to give Aramis a good, hard look, the incognito Musketeer smiled and tapped the brim of his hat. “Buen dia, senior.” he greeted. “Could you recommend a good tavern?”</p><p>The man’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, looking him up and down. Then, relaxing, he waved a hand further down the road. “De Soldado en reposo.”</p><p>Aramis glanced in the indicated direction. “A favorite?”</p><p>“Has to be.” The guard grunted. “Only one.”</p><p>The Musketeer smiled. “Well, then, a favorite it is. Gracias.”</p><p>The local snorted before moving on, seemingly satisfied that all was it should be.</p><p>Aramis continued on to the front of the tavern. With easy grace and a nonchalant manner, he swung his leg over the front of his mount as he dismounted, a move that gave him a full 360 degree view of his immediate area. He laid the reins over the hitching post, knowing the well trained mount wouldn’t wander, and the loose tie meant time saved if he had to make a quick getaway.</p><p>Aramis was feeling a little lonely when he looked at the door of the tavern, knowing he was about to step out of sight of any possible help. Of course, if anything had happened on the street, his brothers would never have been able to reach him in time to do anything about it. But, at least they would be able to see from their perch in the trees high on the hill overlooking the town. A little bit of him regretted rejecting Athos recommendation that he had taken Porthos with him. A rich Spaniard with a Moore slave or body man wasn’t unheard of. Porthos wouldn’t have needed to know the language, probably wouldn’t even have been spoken to. But Aramis protested that it would attract too much attention. Not to mention he would never ask his big friend to play the part of a slave. <br/>Never! Not Porthos! <br/>Porthos’ only response was a grunt. It was in his nature to go with the flow. Even if he was hurt in the process. But that was why it was up to his brothers to look after him.  </p><p>Resisting the urge to glance up at the hilltop, Aramis took a deep breath and pushed his way through the door into the tavern.</p><p>The tavern was well lit for being only midday, candles on the walls, a fire in the hearth warming against the fall chill. There were only eight or nine tables, and a long serving counter that ran the entire length of the tavern at the back wall, broken only for a passage to the stairs and kitchen in the back. Battle standards, and weapons hung from the walls, trophies of past triumphs. With still a couple of hours of light to get work done, most of the locals were out doing just that: tending their stores or farms. Those who occupied a tavern this time of day were soldiers off shift, town drunks, or the odd wanderer. All known to be enthusiastic gossips. There were only six or seven people in the tavern, plus a very young barmaid wiping down tables and a very big man standing behind the counter pouring one bottle into another.</p><p>As expected, Aramis became the center of attention as soon as he had stepped into the room. But, after a moment, they turned away, earning nothing more than an uninterested shrug. The Musketeer took a deep breath and picked a table in the corner, away from the others, but where he could see the entire room. He put his back to the wall and tossed his hat on the chair beside him. </p><p>The barmaid looked to the big man behind the counter. With a jerk of his head, he sent her scampering over. “Senior.” She squeaked as she stood on her toes to reach across the table to wipe directly in front of him.</p><p>Aramis raised an eyebrow. “Senorita…” he frowned. “How old are you?”</p><p>She smirked. “Old enough. You thirsty?”</p><p>The man smiled at her spunk. “And hungry… if you have something worth eating.”</p><p>The girl suddenly beamed. “Best stew you’ll find in any tavern in town.”</p><p>Aramis leaned across the table. “Thought this was the only tavern in town.” At the girl’s suddenly hurt look, he quickly amended “Must have driven all the rest out of business, eh?” When the smile returned, Aramis nodded, tossing a reales in the air. “That is a stew I just must try. And bread?”</p><p>The girl’s hand snapped out, snatching the coin out of the air with speed and accuracy that would have impressed Porthos. With a bob of the head, she skipped away, chewing on the coin as she went.</p><p>She was right, Aramis mused a couple hours later as he sipped at an excellent sherry. It was some of the best stew he had ever had from a tavern. Bread wasn’t bad either. Once she was certain the coin was real, Beatriz, or Bea as her friends called her, the little barmaid, was quite attentive, delivering a second helping of stew, offering casadiellas to finish the meal, even taking a moment to chat here and there.</p><p>It was when the shadows began to deepen and another two barmaids, much older, came in to light more candles, that Bea came over to his table one more time. “Get you anything more, Senior?” she asked. </p><p>Aramis glanced at the door as a group of soldiers came in, pushing and laughing. Placing another two coins on the table and sliding them across to her, he asked “May I impose on you just one more request, lovely senorita?”</p><p>The girl quirked one eyebrow at the hand that laid over the coins. “Um…” she hesitated.</p><p>“Information!” Aramis quickly clarified. “Or, at least, the expelling of information.”</p><p>Bea tilted her head to that. Though her unease seemed to lesson, her suspicion deepened. “Depends…”</p><p>Aramis removed his hand, but the girl did not move toward the coins, instead, waiting to hear what, exactly, they were meant to pay for. The Musketeer shook a finger at her. “You, my dear lady, are far cleverer than your years.” He leaned forward on his arms. “Not too long ago a friend of mine disappeared here abouts. I was hoping you may have heard of him. Or, perhaps, you could let those who might know, know that I am looking for him.”</p><p>Bea shrugged. “What’s he look like?” she wondered, her hand slipping a little closer to the coins.</p><p>“Little taller than I, olive skin, leaner than I, shoulder length black hair.” Aramis smirked. “Tends to attract trouble.”</p><p>“Aye, aye, aye, senior, that be a bad thing to attract around here. Our Lords are quite clear about trouble.” Bea warned.</p><p>Aramis frowned. “Perhaps I should ask the soldiers then?” He reached for the coins.</p><p>Bea’s little hand snatched the coins. “I will tell them that you are asking after your friend.” she assured.</p><p>Aramis smiled and leaned back in his seat. “You are as gracious as you are clever.”</p><p>With a smile and a bob of the head, Bea skipped away to the tables the soldiers had claimed. As bold as ever, she kicked the leg of one of the soldier’s chairs. When the man snapped around to throw her a glare, she quirked an eyebrow at him. When he sighed and relaxed back in his seat, Bea spoke a few words and tilted her head in the Musketeer’s direction. </p><p>Aramis suddenly felt rather uneasy as a table full of soldiers turned their eyes toward him. Feigning confidence, he offered the table a smile, raising his drink in greeting.</p><p>The soldiers exchanged glances. Three of them pushed back from their table and started his way. The one in the lead walked with a limp, the wooden peg of his left leg thumping as he made his way.  The soldiers who followed walked on either side as if escorting. When the leader dropped into the seat across from Aramis, the other two took up a station on either side of him. </p><p>Aramis offered them a smile. “Bonus Dias, Senor.” he greeted when the other men didn’t speak.</p><p>The leader’s eyes narrowed. “You are looking for a friend.” He prodded.</p><p>“I am.” Aramis leaned forward. “Aramis Iglesias, at your service.” he offered.</p><p>“Spanish.” one of the others huffed.</p><p>The leader raised an eyebrow. “Tell us ‘bout this friend. So dear, yet easily so easily lost?”</p><p>Aramis licked his lips. “Yes, well, he is quite dear to my employer.”</p><p>“Employer? French?”</p><p>“English. Though the boy was from Gascon.” Aramis corrected. “My Lord was passing through Spain on holiday when his… friend decided to go on a holiday of his own and he has yet to return. It had been suggested to us that he wanted to explore some ruins near here.”</p><p>The crippled soldier leaned forward. “The boy is French then, si?” When Aramis shrugged, the man wondered “How is it that an English Lord be holidaying with a French boy and a Spanish… soldier?” </p><p>Aramis chuckled as he reached up to brush his fingers over his beard. “Yes, well, more of a… procurer. My employer is quite unique in his tastes and I am quite talented in satisfying those tastes.”</p><p>“Humph. I bet.” The standing soldier spoke again. He looked Aramis up and down. “With that pretty ass and those pretty lips…” He was silenced by his leader’s hand snapping up.</p><p>Despite the sudden stiffness to his spine, Aramis didn’t give any outward signs that he had even heard the comments. He kept his dark eyes focused on the leader. “The boy is my height, perhaps a breath taller. Slender. He has the classic Gascon look to him: dark hair, dark eyes, golden skin. Leans towards the stubborn.”</p><p>This time it was the leader who gave an amused huff. He glanced to one side than the other, exchanging looks with his brethren. Then he pushed up from the table and tossed a few coins on the table. “Come, Procurer.”</p><p>Aramis quickly rose. “You have seen him? Do you have him?” he asked hurriedly.</p><p>The leader chuckled. “Come, Procurer.” He repeated, before turning and limping toward the door.</p><p>His comrades stood aside and waited for Aramis to follow.</p><p>Taking a deep breath, the Musketeer set his hat upon his head and followed, very much aware of the two soldiers falling in step behind him.</p><p>0o0o0</p><p>“I don’t like this.”Porthos grumbled from where he stood on a tree covered hilltop that overlooked the village. He could just make out Aramis as he swung up on his horse and, joining three other riders, rode out the other side of town. “I don’t like it! Not one bit!”</p><p>Athos gave a tired sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He didn’t like it either, but there was no other choice. They had discussed and thrown out dozens of ideas on the ride here. Even abandoned the plan they had agreed on upon leaving the hunting lodge. And that had been before they saw what qualified as citizens of the local town.</p><p>Even the little boys playing at the edge of town looked more like battle drills!</p><p>“They’re riding out.” Porthos told him as he headed for their horses. </p><p>“You know what concerns me?” Athos mumbled as he gazed down at the town a moment longer.</p><p>Swinging up on his mount, the big Musketeer huffed at his leader. “That they’re getting too far ahead with Aramis?”</p><p>Athos continued to frown down at the town for another moment.</p><p>“Athos!” Porthos hissed.</p><p>He spun about and swung up on his own horse. “There is not just a few veterans down there, sitting a stone throw from the boarder with France.” He pointed out to his friend. “That’s at least a regiment of trained, skilled by looks of them, and disciplined soldiers.”</p><p>Porthos’ eyes narrowed. “What are you saying? You think they could attack France?”</p><p>Athos shrugged. “Do we have any answer for a force that size that close?”</p><p>Porthos gave a slow shake of his head. “We’ve got to get our brothers and get back to France. The Captain’s gonna need to know about this place!”</p><p>“Then we should ride.” Athos encouraged, turning his mount and leading the way.</p><p>0o0o0</p><p>Felipe Trastámara stepped from the room, lacing his trousers.</p><p>Peter smirked at his brother. “Your verdict?”</p><p>“The boy has endless fight to him.” Felipe mused. He raised one eyebrow. “And, yet still not one word?” He shook his head. “Amazing strength for one so young. If he could be turned, imagine the soldier he could be.”</p><p>Peter crossed his arms and bobbed his head in agreement. “He has been an… entertaining one… as you have just experienced.” </p><p>Felipe chuckled. “Still took two men to restrain him.” He picked up his weapons belt and buckled it in place. “Can he be turned? Or, in the very least, broken?” </p><p>His brother shrugged. “The boy is stubborn. He’s protecting something more dear  than he is to himself.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Pulling on his gloves, Felipe returned the shrug. “It may not matter at all. I have received information that we may have more Frenchmen to choose from. I will be taking the regiment up to the ruins, see if we can’t catch ourselves a few more rabbits for the stew.”</p><p>Peter tilted his head. “That may be the key we need to break the boy. He cares nothing for himself, but what of his fellows? After all, where does true strength spring from? One brother protecting another no doubt.”</p><p>Felipe gave him a fond smile. “I can think of no strength truer.” he admitted. He reached out to place a hand on his brother’s chest. “Prepare to receive more French rabbits, dear brother. Be assured I will return with a snare full.” With a final loving pat, he turned and hurried on his way.</p><p>0o0o0</p><p>He curled up on himself, pulling his knees close to his chest, tucking his face into his knees, his arms wrapping around his head.</p><p>Buckets of icy salt water was splashed over his body, igniting every little scratch, cut, slice, burn, and abrasion until his entire body was enflamed with pain. He closed his eyes against another splash, coughing and spitting the water out of his mouth. His teeth chattered as the cold twisted his muscles, racking his body with shivers. His head throbbed, his fingers cramped, his eyes burned. </p><p>His mind whimpered, no longer even bothering to think in words. He gave up long ago on even thinking. His mind only worked in groans and whimpers and cries.</p><p>If not for the pain, he might as well have been dead.</p><p>Dead.</p><p>That was one word his mind still held onto.</p><p>0o0o0o0</p>
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